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Get a copy of this writing in the Mark Fleury 2017 poetry book the Eight Wheeled Doorway of Serpent’s Head on line:

The Page Bled, Dyeing

Mark Fleury

The page bled, dyeing
The suit of a cosmic-
Hearted President
Of the United States
Of America. A blue wind,

His voice, blew across a canyon,

Chaptered in a western
Cowboy hat’s slaughterhouse.

But that’s all a signature
On the cast of my past; my blue bones

Again have white clouds.
My desert headache a cool
Evening to absorb the dusk’s

Crimson blood of soldiers.
Salutes at funerals always have

Green grass beneath them.
My voice is full of all
The sunsets folded in the flags
On mothers’ laps:

My compound eye
Contains them all, the warmth
Of their hearts contained
In the soil. That’s as west
As the saturation

Of my grief gets, before dry
Leaves skitter across
The headstone crosses in
My saluting fingers’ bones.

My television screen unfolds
The same way, shedding its
Skin to show it’s always raining
In the reptilian brain-eye.

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